


et sur mon manège, l'amour toujours est chantant

by girodelles_waifu



Category: Takarazuka Revue Musicals, The Scarlet Pimpernel - All Media Types, The Scarlet Pimpernel - Takarazuka Revue
Genre: (minor appearances of), Crossdressing, Extra Treat, Extremely Annoyed Work Colleagues to Lovers, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sharing a Bed, Undercover as Married, pining speedrun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25699156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girodelles_waifu/pseuds/girodelles_waifu
Summary: Before the creation of the League, Percy finds his second recruit in his rural noble friend Antony Dewhurst and sends him to rescue Andrew Ffoulkes from a predicament in Paris. Meanwhile, Andrew is horrified to discover his fate is in the hands of an amateur.
Relationships: Antony Dewhurst/Andrew Ffoulkes
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	et sur mon manège, l'amour toujours est chantant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onestepatatime32](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onestepatatime32/gifts).



> This is written for the musical (featuring the Japanese cast from 2017, with Ichijo Azusa as Dewhurst and Tenju Mitsuki as Ffoulkes), but should be moderately compatible with most other versions as well.  
> Book and musical and Takarazuka timelines vary on when the League was created and Percy married, but in any case, this takes place some time before either event.

“Antony, you’ve got a letter. And...another letter. And another, and...”

“What’s this all about, Simone?” Antony asks, taking the pile from his sister. They’re all on the same stationery. He glances at one. “From Sir Percy? He never writes...”

Sir Percival Blakeney has visited them at their aunt’s estate in Ireland a few times in the ten years they’ve lived there, as Percy’s mother was an old family friend. This time it seems he’s trying to return the favor. 

“He’s asked me to London over spring,” Antony says after he breaks the seal on the top letter and skims the contents. “He seems very insistent about it,” he adds, after looking at the next two. “I don’t know if I ought…”

“Of course you ought!” Simone says quickly.

“But the estate…”

“I can handle it on my own for a few months,” she replies firmly. “You go and enjoy yourself in London, and bring me a pile of hats when you come back.”

Antony laughs. “When I return you won’t be able to see me for the hat boxes. I’ll go pack.”

* * *

As the carriage rolls up to the Blakeney estate, Antony wonders what this could all be about. Percy inviting him to visit couldn’t really be described as strange, but Antony never thought they were quite that close. He was always polite on his visits, and seemed to enjoy himself—although with Percy you never could be quite sure what he was thinking—but there was always an air of obligation to them, or so Antony thought. 

Antony always felt rather awkward in Percy’s presence. Even though Percy never acknowledged the clear difference in the Dewhurst and Blakeney family wealth, it was difficult not to notice when he swept in wearing the latest London fashions and bringing the most delectable court gossip with him. But he was never anything but friendly, so it was difficult to resent him for it either.

Even wearing his best clothes Antony knows he’s going to make a poor entrance compared to Sir Percy, but he barely makes it out of the carriage before his host pounces on him.

“Dewhurst! Dewhurst, my dear boy, it’s been an age!” Percy says, pulling him towards the house.

“How are you, Percy?” Antony manages to get out as they climb the stairs to the door.

“Dreadful, dreadful,” Percy beams, “the embroiderer I get all my cravats from has retired, and my wardrobe is in shambles, I tell you!”

Antony laughs, ducking a little as Percy gesticulates. “You look fine to me,” he says.

“I beg you not to patronize me,” Percy retorts, pinching the bridge of his nose dramatically. “How can I show myself at court…come, let’s talk in the study where no one will see my shame…”

Some of the theatricality fades as Percy closes the door of the study behind them. Antony leans against the desk, watching him curiously. He’s never seen Percy look so serious over all the years they’ve been acquainted.

Percy paces the room for a few moments, then stops in front of the huge mahogany bookcase set into the far wall. “Antony…” he begins, then pauses again.

This is also out of the ordinary. Percy has never called him anything but Dewhurst before.

“We’re friends, aren’t we, Antony?”

Antony blinks. “Of course,” he replies. “Why else would I be here?”

Percy laughs a little, the lace in his cuffs fluttering as he runs a hand through his hair. Antony realizes with a start that he sounds nervous. “Of course...Antony, I meant...I never meant to bring this up so suddenly, but something happened just after you wrote me that you were coming, and I can think of no one else I trust more right now.”

Antony stares silently, feeling confused yet flattered. Percy is always effusive, but he never exaggerates with such a serious expression.

“Have you heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Antony?” Percy goes on.

“No...oh, no, I think I might have heard the name in a tavern while I was waiting for my carriage to London. Is it a play or something? You know we don’t get that kind of thing in Ireland. What’s this all about?”

“Perhaps it’s better if I show you.”

Percy presses on one of the books, and the bookcase splits open, sinking into the wall and pulling apart to reveal the entrance of a secret room with a map entirely covering one wall. Antony jumps down from the desk to lean into the room and look around.

“I’m the Scarlet Pimpernel,” Percy says from behind him. “God, feels a bit silly saying that as if people are supposed to know what it means. Listen,” he continues, stepping inside the room, “you know what’s been going on in France, right?”

“We’re not _that_ cut off in Ireland,” Antony replies, stepping around a table covered with books to get closer to the map.

“Of course not,” Percy says quickly. “Sorry. Things are getting more and more violent in France, and there are so many people trying to get across the Channel to England.” Antony looks up at the map, an elaborate sea chart of the English Channel with dozens of secret inlets and coves on each side picked out with flower emblems. “I’m trying to help them.”

“You, Percy?” Antony turns to look back at him.

“I am, in fact, capable of having more than one thought in my head at a time,” Percy replies, in a replica of the tone Antony used in his retort about Ireland.

“I didn’t mean...this is a bit much at once,” Antony says, pulling out one of the chairs and sitting down in it abruptly.

“I know,” Percy says, leaning on a chair on the opposite side of the table. “I never meant for this to be so sudden, but I fear I’m running out of time. My only associate in this operation went to Paris nearly a month ago and just after you set out from Ireland I received a warning message from him. I don’t know what danger he’s in, but he seems to be stranded in Paris and every day he can’t get out makes it more likely that he’s arrested—but I can’t leave England now, since I have to meet a smuggling ship on the coast. I know our connection is not so deep that I have any right to ask you to put yourself at such risk, but—”

“Not at all, Percy!” Antony interrupts. He stands up and extends a hand across the table. “I’d be honored to help you. Just tell me what I need to do.”

“I’m the one who is honored,” Percy says, taking his hand.

* * *

A week later, Antony finds himself standing in front of a Parisian opera house, wondering if this is where he will finally meet Percy’s mysterious associate. Percy gave him very little information about the person he was supposed to meet, it being safer for all of them the less he knew in case he was arrested, so all Antony has to go on is a bank of memorized password phrases and a list of rendezvous points that were already agreed on in case of emergency.

Antony has already tried most of them without success. If Percy’s friend is not at the opera, he isn’t sure what to do; he can hardly go back to Percy and tell him he failed, not after Percy put so much trust in him.

The private box from Percy’s instructions is empty when he enters. Antony crosses the elaborate carpet and leans over the gilt railing, looking around for anyone who seems out of place, but everyone else in the theatre looks much more as if they belong than Antony does. As the orchestra begins tuning, Antony sits down in one of the velvet-upholstered chairs with a sigh, resting his elbows on the railing in front of him and putting his chin in his hands.

Antony had always been one for outdoor pursuits rather than theatre or concerts, so he takes in the sights and sounds of the opera with only vague comprehension that someone who appreciated that kind of thing would probably like it very much. Mostly he is concerned about what else he can do to find Percy’s unfortunate friend before he gives up and returns to England alone.

Just before the second act starts, Antony hears the door to the box open again behind him. He whirls around on the seat to look before remembering he should be trying not to be too obvious, but it’s too late to take back the action so he watches the newcomer walk to the remaining seat in a swirl of wine-red silk skirts.

This is obviously not Percy’s friend, Antony realizes with a sinking feeling. Percy was sending him to meet a man—but there’s still a chance this lady could be some intermediary. Or perhaps she is a spy from the French Government, and Percy’s friend has already been arrested.

Antony studies her as she settles in the chair and arranges the skirts around her; the box is so small the expansive skirt of her gown nearly brushes up against Antony’s shoes, and he quickly shifts to avoid treading on her hem. Her blond hair is swept back to fall in ringlets down her neck, with several roses pinned above one ear. Another rose is fastened to a velvet choker around her neck, above the sheer lace shawl covering the gown’s open neckline, but Antony can see very little of her face, as she snapped open a black lace fan to hide it as soon as she noticed him watching her. 

He imagines he can feel her scrutinizing him as closely as he is examining her. Still, he can see no clue as to her identity or any sign of whether or not she might be an ally of the Pimpernel. Antony is sure now that he was never meant for any of this spy business, but Sir Percy trusted him—he can’t let him down, not like this.

As the orchestra swirls into a crescendo at the end of an aria, the lady drops her fan, and Antony goes to pick it up, kneeling at her feet as he hands it back to her. He realizes suddenly that what he thought was a lady at a distance is actually an exceptionally beautiful young man, with deep blue eyes above high cheekbones. He stares frozen until the fan is snatched from his fingers.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” the man says, snapping the fan open with long fingers inside pink lace gloves. He sounds dreadfully annoyed at being stared at, and Antony slowly starts to rise, then stops as he feels a hand on his arm. “I find Rameau very dull tonight, do you not?” the other man says, looking up at him sharply from under the roses.

Antony gasps and jumps to his feet, then realizes he shouldn’t be making a scene here and quietly gets back into his own seat. The man next to him is looking at him with raised eyebrows now. “Oh!” Antony remembers he’s forgotten an important step. “I, uh, yes, Mozart would be much more modern,” he stammers.

The other man blinks, the gaze in his blue eyes becoming suddenly intent as he grabs Antony’s arm and pulls him closer, tilting his face towards him until it looks, if anyone happened to be watching, as if they’re having a romantic interlude of their own. “So who are you and what are you doing here.”

Antony can feel himself blushing hot, and hopes it isn’t visible in the low light of the opera box. “Oh! Well, uh, you see, Percy, he asked, and I wasn’t doing anything in Ireland, so, I mean that part’s not important, but, anyway, in point of fact—” at this point he has to take a break to breathe, “—I’m here to rescue you.”

“...Oh good heavens.”

* * *

Two interminably awkward hours later, Antony descends the stairs of the theatre, feeling quite stupid albiet slightly better informed than he was before he arrived for the opera.

“Beg pardon, Mademoiselle,” he says as his companion slips a little on one of the steps, putting an arm around the corseted waist.

“ _Do_ be more careful, country idiot.”

The very indignant man next to him is apparently named Sir Andrew Ffoulkes—Antony vaguely remembers Percy mentioning him once or twice in his visits as a member of his London social set.

“You’re the one who tripped,” Antony hisses back.

“Do you want to get guillotined?” Andrew smiles up at him sweetly, taking Antony’s cuff between two fingers and pointedly pulling his hand off his waist.

“I’m beginning to see the appeal,” Antony mutters back, struggling to keep up his own sham smile.

Andrew snaps the fan open again and looks away, hiding his face with it again as he links his other arm around Antony’s.

Antony is grateful they were able to talk so little under cover of the opera. He suspects it’s only that and Andrew’s current guise as a winsome society belle that saves him from hearing how badly he’s handled things in much greater detail than he already has. (‘Can’t believe he picked you’, ‘no experience in society’, ‘save time to give ourselves up now’...Antony tries not to remember the rest.) 

Andrew has worked with Percy in this Pimpernel business ever since it got started, and is making it very clear he was not at all pleased about Percy recruiting someone else without mentioning it to him, even if it was to save him from the guillotine.

Still, Antony can’t help enjoying himself just a little; personality aside, Andrew is one of the most beautiful men he has ever seen, and under any other circumstances Antony would be overjoyed to escort a man like him. Of course, if Andrew suspected this it would only make him even more furious.  
  
But if these were any other circumstances Antony would be lucky if Andrew took any notice of him other than to scorn him for being a country noble with no wealth or taste.

Under any other circumstances, Antony would most likely never have met him at all.

And once they return, Andrew is surely going to insist to Sir Percy that Antony never work with them again, and Antony will have to go back to Ireland alone and try to forget all about adventures in France...and Andrew’s blue eyes, and his delicate hands, and the soft warmth under the silk bodice…

Perhaps it would be easier if they had never met. But Antony couldn’t leave Sir Percy in need at a time like this.

“Now what?” Andrew demands as they reach the street. “The _Pimpernel_ —” he emphasizes the code name, as Antony’s slip in using Percy’s real name had been the topic of one of the fiercely whispered lectures, “—must have given you some kind of instructions. If you haven’t forgotten them already.”

“Er, yes, I brought…” Antony starts to reach inside his coat, but Andrew grabs his hand.

“For God’s sake, not out in the open!” A few of the other departing audience members look over and Andrew rolls his eyes briefly before putting on the fake smile again. “Come, Monsieur, it’s getting late,” he says in a sugary tone with poison underneath. “Don’t you think you should call a carriage?”

Antony freezes for a moment, none of the words sinking in as Andrew leans against him and traces a gloved hand down his sleeve flirtatiously.

Andrew pulls at his sleeve until he leans down a little, stretching to whisper in his ear. “Are you going to call a carriage or not, idiot! If we stand around here we’re only going to attract more attention!”

“R-right, sorry.” Antony raises his hand to wave down a waiting carriage.

“And at least _try_ to look as if you belong at an opera house and a bit less like you’re escorting your maiden aunt to a country dance!”

“Actually…”

“If you are in the habit of escorting your maiden aunt to country dances I do not want to know!”

Once the carriage starts to move, the clatter of the wheels and trotting hoofbeats make enough noise that Andrew could shout at him without attracting any notice from the driver if he wished. Antony braces himself for another tirade, but Andrew doesn’t say anything, just folds his arms and gazes out the window with a distant expression.

He looks suddenly exhausted.

Antony tries to think about it from his point of view. Andrew was stranded in Paris for weeks, alone, with no idea if Percy even saw his message, and knowing that every day that passed made it more likely that he would be hunted down and dragged to the guillotine.

And then instead of a knight in shining armor riding to the rescue he got a silly country boy playing at spies, who was too starstruck looking at him to string two words together with any sense. No wonder he’s frustrated, Antony realizes. The least he can do is try not to get in the way for a while, so he turns away to look through the opposite window, watching the moonlit streets drift by.

The carriage suddenly rattles to a halt, making Antony jump. He looks out the window at the sad-looking street full of bedraggled stone buildings. “Is this the place?” he says. There’s no reply. “I said,” he continues a bit louder, starting to turn around, “is this the—oh.”

Andrew is asleep on the bench, his head resting against the wall of the carriage and the thin shawl wrapped loosely around his shoulders. Some of the roses have come loose from his hair and fallen into his lap, and the fan lays forgotten by his feet.

The indignant frown from most of the evening is gone, as well as the simpering smile of his disguise, leaving only a soft pout and the slightly worried tilt of his brows.

The rouge on his lips is smeared a little. Antony suddenly wants very much to kiss him. 

The carriage driver knocks on the door. “Citoyen and Citoyenne, we have arrived,” he says.

Andrew stirs a little but doesn’t wake.

“Not going to hate me any less after this…” Antony mutters to himself before sitting on the bench next to Andrew, putting a hand lightly over his mouth before shaking his shoulder. As he suspected, Andrew comes awake with a start and he has to grab his wrists to keep from getting struck. “It’s me!” Antony whispers sharply. “Remember? We’re escaping Paris together?”

Andrew takes a few more panicked breaths as Antony releases him. “Right,” he says after a moment. “You.” He puts a hand over his eyes for a moment with a sigh. “I’m overjoyed.”

Antony picks up the fan and holds it out to him; Andrew ignores the gesture so Antony drops it in his lap before opening the door of the carriage and stepping down to pay the driver. This done, he holds out his hand to help Andrew down with what he thinks is exemplary gentlemanly grace, considering the circumstances. Andrew puts his gloved hand in his stiffly and snatches it away as soon as he’s safely on the ground, smoothing his skirts restlessly. “This way,” he says once the carriage is gone, pulling Antony further into the alley.

Andrew leads him up a shaky, splintering staircase and opens the door to a small bare flat. “So what instructions do you bring from the Pimpernel?” he asks, tossing the shawl onto the table in the sitting room and starting to pull out the pins holding the rest of the roses.

“He gave me new travel passes for you,” Antony says, taking the packet of documents from the inner pocket of his coat and setting it on the table. “He said you would most likely be able to think of something after that.”

“Lovely.” Andrew pulls the ribbon out of his hair and shakes his head as the curls fall loose.

“What happened?” Antony asks, trying not to stare at Andrew’s nearly-bare shoulders and collarbone. “Per—the Pimpernel didn’t know.”

Andrew shrugs as he unclasps the velvet choker. “The forger I hired was arrested before he could make the passports I needed, so I gave my papers to the girl I was escorting out and tried to send word to the Pimpernel. Last week they found the hotel I was staying at, but they were looking for a man so they didn’t even notice me leaving dressed like this...nobody around here asks any questions, but if things went on much longer…” he trails off, looking down at the little pile of roses. “We can leave in the morning,” he goes on in a brighter tone, turning towards the door of the bedroom. “I’m sure there’s an armchair or something...somewhere…” he gestures vaguely back at the sitting room and Antony glances around at the fabric-covered furnishings.

“Um,” Antony says, staring at Andrew’s back as he opens the door.

Andrew pauses, looking back at him over his shoulder. “What is it _now_.”

“Do you. I mean. Well. Do you need any help with…” Antony makes a vague unlacing motion and Andrew glares. “Sorry.”

“I’ve had quite enough help from you tonight, _thank_ you.” Andrew sweeps into the bedroom with a rustle of silk skirts and slams the door.

Antony leans on the table with a sigh. “Dewhurst, you idiot, as if things weren’t bad enough…”

* * *

Andrew seems to be in a slightly better temper the next morning, as he only spends five minutes haranguing Antony before moving on to the order of the day. Desite refusing Antony’s offer to help, he must have slept in the ball gown from the previous evening, as he is already dressed when he emerges and the silk is creased.

Opening the packet of documents, Andrew glances through them. “Blank passports...francs...British and French cheques...lovely. This should be enough to get us out of Paris, and then we should have no trouble reaching the coast. If you don’t do anything stupid and get us caught, of course,” he adds as an afterthought. 

Antony looks down at the documents spread over the table and picks up one of the blank passports. “Logically, you know...” he begins, dreading the response to what he is about to say.

“I dread to hear the rest of this sentence,” Andrew agrees.

“Logically,” Antony says, steeling himself, “we should say that we are...you know…”

“Oh God.”

“A couple.”

Andrew sighs deeply and whirls away in a rustle of silk.

“Sorry,” Antony says. “Stupid idea. Forget I said anything.”

“No.” Andrew turns back, a look on his face as if he is mounting the gallows. “You are...correct. Tragically, this would be a very good plan, considering the situation.”

Antony feels like the prospect of being married to him is not so terrible as all of that, but of course he can’t actually say that without setting off another lecture.

“I shall have to go out and purchase a different dress,” Andrew goes on. “This one is too fine to travel in, we’d attract attention. You just...wait here until I get back. And don’t do anything. _Anything_. Nothing.”

“Understood.” Antony makes a mock salute: Andrew seems to waver for a moment between laughing and snarling, then rolls his eyes with a sigh and swirls out the door.

Antony paces the room idly as he waits, wondering how much he can get away with without Andrew noticing when he returns. The heap of roses on the table catches his eye as he passes by, and he picks one up, turning it between his fingers. The delicate pink shade is nearly the same as the rouge on Andrew’s lips last night. Brushing a thumb over the soft petals, Antony finds himself wondering what Andrew’s lips would feel like and tosses the rose back on the table with a sigh.

There’s no point in making things worse for himself, he thinks as he sits down heavily in the mostly-broken armchair where he spent the last night. Better not to think about such things.

He spends the next hour thinking about it anyway.

Andrew finally returns, carrying a few paper-wrapped parcels that he drops on the table next to the pile of roses, before going into the bedroom and emerging with a small leather valise. “These should do, I think,” he says, unwrapping the parcels and taking out two wool dresses. He seems almost cheerful, and actually bestows a smile upon Antony as he speaks; a genuine smile, not the strained mask of the night before. “Now, we just need to get these passports filled out and we can be on our way. It’s early enough that if we leave now we can make Boulogne in three days with good weather, and the Pimpernel has a contact there who should be able to get us on a boat across the Channel. If that fails, we ought to still make the Belgian border before any pursuit from Paris can reach us. Which one do you think?”

“Which…?”

“Which of _these_ do you think I ought to wear, of course,” Andrew says, holding up the dresses. One is a soft dove-gray with black velvet trim, the other in blue with white lace. Antony’s efforts to think are entirely flummoxed by the prospect of either. “You are hopeless to talk to,” Andrew says finally, “I don’t know why I try.” He folds up the gray dress and drops it in the valise before vanishing into the bedroom with the blue one.

Antony groans and puts his face in his hand as the door slams. For a moment, he realizes, he had a chance to win Andrew’s toleration (he knows friendship or anything beyond that would be quite futile to hope for) but of course he promptly ruined this opportunity before even noticing it existed.

* * *

Once they’re in a carriage headed towards one of the gates leading out of Paris, Andrew spends several minutes grilling Antony on the contents of the forged passports and the family history of their false identities, but with the press at the gate the guard barely glances at their papers before waving them on.

“Thank God,” Andrew sighs in relief, relaxing against the back of the bench; he was clutching the leather valise like a lifeline the whole time the guard was holding their passports, but now sets it on the bench beside him. “Now if only the rest of the guards we encounter turn out to be as incompetent at their job as you are at yours, we’ll have no trouble at all.”

Antony winces from his seat; Andrew had spoken in a cheerful, matter-of-fact tone with little malice, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. They’re sitting on opposite corners of the carriage again, in unspoken agreement to avoid each other as much as possible when not absolutely necessary.

Andrew takes a small book of French poems out of his white muslin purse and commences reading, or at least valiantly pretending to read. Antony watches him out of the corner of his eye. He makes a charming picture, framed by the carriage window and with his soft blond hair lit up to bright gold in the sunlight. 

As the hours wear on, Antony occasionally debates trying to make conversation, but concludes that it is better to pretend there’s the possibility of being on speaking terms rather than to make the attempt and have it proven otherwise.

Shortly before they arrive at the roadside inn where they plan to spend the first night, a mounted patrol of Republican soldiers halts the carriage. One of them dismounts and approaches.

Andrew puts the book away. “If you mess this up…”

Antony has no doubt that if they are arrested he won’t hear the end of it until they reach the headsman. “I will be the height of circumspection,” he whispers back as the soldier knocks on the door of the carriage. “If you will allow me, my dear?”

“Of course, husband mine.”

Antony opens the door of the carriage and hands Andrew down. “Good afternoon, Citoyen,” he says, making a small bow to the soldier. Too much superciliousness was seen as bourgeois, but it was important not to be rude either (according to Andrew’s latest lecture).

“Might we see your passports?” the soldier says. “You know how it is, all those aristos trying to escape their just deserts. We’re under orders to be suspicious of everyone,” he adds apologetically. He looks very young, easily several years younger than Antony or Andrew. The more easily fooled, Antony thinks, and feels rather sorry for him: hopefully he wouldn’t get in any trouble for this.

“Of course,” Antony says, taking his passport out of his inner coat pocket. “And yours, my dear?”

Andrew opens his purse and takes out the other passport, handing it over to the guard with a small curtsy before taking Antony’s arm again. Antony can feel his fingers digging in even through the heavy coat, but his expression doesn’t change at all.

“So. Philippe Gerard, dye merchant.”

“Exactly, Citoyen,” Antony replies.

“And wife, Christine.”

Andrew curtsies again. This must be terribly frustrating for him, Antony is sure, being unable to take charge even though he’s obviously the one more experienced in this business, and being forced to rely on Antony after he’s shown himself to be so unreliable over the past few days.

“Where are you bound, Citoyen?”

“Boulogne,” Antony replies. “To meet with one of my suppliers.”

“What for?”

Andrew goes stiff beside him—this level of detail had not been discussed in their rushed plotting session. Not so easily fooled after all, Antony thinks with a silent curse as he tries to think of something to say.

Suddenly, Andrew stumbles, swaying as he puts a hand to his forehead. “Terribly sorry, Citoyen,” Antony says quickly. “My wife...the heat…” He puts a hand around Andrew’s waist for support as Andrew fishes in his purse for the black lace fan. “Here, my dear, perhaps if you rest for a moment—” Once Andrew is seated on the carriage steps, fanning vigorously, Antony turns back to the young soldier. “Beg pardon,” he says.

“Not at all. Now…” the soldier looks down at the papers again. “Boulogne, correct, Citoyen Gerard? What were you going to do there?”

“One of my suppliers there seems to have discovered a more efficient method of producing red dye,” Antony says, hoping the story he’s thought up isn’t as flimsy as it feels after the ten seconds he spent to compose it. “With there being so much demand for red ribbons and fabric these days, I see it as my patriotic duty to look into it.”

“...I see. That’s very commendable, Citoyen.”

“Thank you,” Antony says as he accepts the passports back.

“Safe travels to you,” the young soldier says with a nod, and mounts his horse again.

Once they’re back in the carriage and on the move once more, Andrew snaps the fan shut and returns it to the purse. Antony hands him ‘Christine’s’ passport back and he accepts it with a tight smile.

They both stare out the windows in silence for several minutes.

“I will allow,” Andrew says finally, speaking very slowly as if the words are being dragged out of him, “that you have some wit, when the circumstances demand it.”

“Thank...you?” Antony says doubtfully.

“So do please make an effort, from now on,” Andrew adds coolly, before returning to his book.

Antony sighs and goes back to staring out the window at the trees blurring past.

* * *

With the delay, it’s almost sunset by the time they arrive at the inn, and by the time Antony makes arrangements for a second carriage setting out at dawn the next morning they only have enough time for a perfunctory supper before it’s time to retire for the night.

When Antony opens the door to their room and sees the large double bed, he suddenly remembers one of the major issues with their current disguises. Andrew doesn’t seem to have realized this yet, as he drops his valise on the floor with a cheerful “Thank God, a bed at last.” He sits down on the edge of the bed and bounces up and down a little. “What luxury, it might even have more than half the stuffing left.”

Antony wonders if he ought to say something as Andrew settles in front of the mirror and begins unbuttoning the blue dress. Probably it would be better to call as little attention to the situation as possible, he decides.

After undressing down to his undershirt and breeches, Antony sits down on the edge of the bed and politely gazes in the opposite direction as Andrew continues undressing, trying not to think too hard about how damnably awkward the rest of the night is going to be.

“Antony.”

“What?” Antony turns around and tries not to blush. The blue dress is lying on the floor now, and Andrew is standing in front of the mirror in just a set of stays over a thin chemise and ruffled pantaloons. The stays are soft pink, with scarlet trim tracing inviting curves over the seams.

“I...could use your help, tonight,” Andrew says slowly, not making eye contact as he gestures towards the laced back of the stays.

“What with...oh! Um! Yes! Certainly! I, uh…here…” Antony starts to untie the ends of the laces and loosen the back, exposing the near-translucent chemise underneath, then freezes.

“What now,” Andrew says, glaring back at him in the mirror.

“I, I just…” Antony wonders how to admit this without sounding like the most dreadful sort of cad. Of course, he probably is the most dreadful sort of cad, so there’s no way out, is there. “I shouldn’t...this is hardly fair...you don’t even know...I swear, when I suggested it, I wasn’t trying to, trying to, well...I thought it would help, that’s all, but then I realized...I should have said something, I know I should have...I can’t take advantage…” He’s still holding the laces, he notices rather distantly, but his hands are shaking a little.

Andrew looks at him in the mirror again, his eyebrows knitting and a baffled pout on his lips that doesn’t help Antony’s quandary at all. “What the devil are you going on about, man? Take advantage? All I want to take advantage of right now is some sleep, so if you would kindly free me…”

“I’m in love with you!”

“Wh…”

Antony drops the laces and steps back, leaning on the end of the bed and staring down at the worn wooden floor so he doesn’t have to see the look on Andrew’s face. “I know you can’t stand me,” he says quickly. “I don’t expect anything. I just didn’t want you to find out later and think of me as...I didn’t want to take advantage of—” he gestures vaguely around the room “—all this.”

There is a long silence.

Antony considers whether it might not be a good idea on the whole to throw himself off the boat back to England.

Andrew suddenly bursts out laughing—honest, bright laughter with no mockery in it. “Oh God!” he exclaims between peals, as Antony stares in shock, “Oh God, no wonder you were in such a state, after I threw myself at you...and here I kept scolding you for not behaving sensibly, you poor boy...I’ve been such a beast, how did you ever manage to see me as anything else?”

“You’re...not angry?” Antony asks, confused.

“I am highly flattered,” Andrew says. “And a little ashamed, not to mention concerned for your good judgement. I shouldn’t like me very much, after what I put you through.”

“You’re very pretty,” Antony points out inanely.

Andrew laughs again, putting a hand on his hip and turning to the side a little in a coquettish pose. “I _have_ been told this once or twice.”

Antony suddenly has another realization. “...by Sir Percy.”

“Percy and I are friends, nothing more, I assure you,” Andrew replies, coming over to sit next to Antony on the end of the bed. “Now, not that I’m not delighted to finally understand what’s going on, you see, but I am still wearing these beastly stays and I was somewhat looking forward to being able to breathe tonight.”

“Yes...yes, of course,” Antony says quickly, tracing the laces back through the eyelets as quickly as possible and trying not to touch too much of what is underneath—Andrew might not be angry, but Antony isn’t sure this can be considered an invitation, either. The creamy linen chemise is warm under his hands as Andrew pulls the stays free and he is vaguely aware of smooth muscle below, like a finely carved statue covered in drapery.

“This will be quite the scandal, you know,” Andrew says, getting up to drape the blue dress over a chair and lay the stays neatly across it.

“Scandal?”

“A society gentleman actually in love with his wife?” Andrew falls onto the bed with a laugh and rolls over to face Antony, the movement shifting the chemise up enough to show how low the ruffled pantaloons sit on his hips. “It isn’t done, dear thing. Whatever _will_ they say.”

“The joke’s rather on the poor fool of a man, isn’t it, if she doesn’t love him back,” Antony replies in the same jesting tone as he starts to turn the covers back, wondering how much of what they’re saying is playacting and how much is real.

Andrew smiles, resting his chin in his hands. “Well. Perhaps she’s still making up her mind.”

“Oh?” Antony sits on the edge of the bed, leaning on one arm and looking down at Andrew. “And what if her husband happened to give her something to make up her mind about?”

Andrew reaches up, a playful—flirtatious?—smile on his lips as he twirls one of Antony’s dark brown locks around a finger. “And what might that be?”

Antony wraps his arms around Andrew’s waist and pulls him up into a kiss, closing his eyes as his hands trace across the chemise. Andrew’s lips are warm, and nearly as soft as the roses, but he returns the kiss with much more enthusiasm than any delicate flower, nipping lightly at Antony’s lower lip and pursuing eagerly with his tongue.

After a few minutes, they have to take a moment to breathe.

“I think,” Andrew says finally, smiling up at Antony as he combs his blond hair across the pillow with his fingers, “that if you keep kissing me like that, and buy me a proper breakfast tomorrow, I might be persuaded to love you for the rest of my life.”

Antony leans down to kiss him again. “What sort of husband would I be if I didn’t buy you every last egg in Boulogne, after a declaration like that…”

* * *

“Look at the lights,” Andrew says from his perch on the railing of the little smuggling boat. “That will be Dover, I expect.”

Antony leans back against the railing and puts an arm around Andrew’s waist to steady him. There’s no need for the disguise now, but Andrew has nothing else to wear, so he still has the dove-gray dress on.

“Once we’re back in England—” Antony starts, turning towards Andrew, then breaks off as Andrew buries his hands in his hair and kisses him, his lips tasting slightly of salt.

“What of England?” Andrew asks, his hair gleaming faintly in the moonlight.

“Once we’re back in England...will all this…” The last three days had been blissful, but Antony still isn’t sure if Andrew is actually serious, or if he only sees this as a brief idyll to be forgotten about once he’s back in his fashionable London circles. “Will all this be over?” he asks, turning to look out over the water.

Andrew laughs softly, leaning over and putting his arms around Antony’s neck. “And here I was wondering the same thing,” he says, kissing Antony’s cheek lightly.

“Why would you…”

“You can’t stay with Sir Percy forever,” Andrew points out, sitting back up on the railing. “You’ll have to go back to Ireland eventually.”

“Ah.” Antony hadn’t even thought of that.

“But…” Andrew continues slowly, knitting his fingers together in his lap, “I do happen to have...rather a large house, you know. And absolutely zero maiden aunts in it, I can assure you. I check under the beds every day to see if any have cropped up.”

“Maiden aunts are something one can tire of eventually,” Antony agrees.

“Although perhaps you wouldn’t like me so much when I’m not wearing a dress.”

“You wound me, madam!” Antony protests with a dramatic gasp. “I should be overjoyed to see you wearing a suit.”

“And what about not wearing one?” Andrew asks, and bursts out laughing as Antony flounders.

A short time later, the boat comes up against a small dock in a hidden inlet.

Andrew tucks a stray lock of windblown blond hair behind his ear and smiles. “Will you carry me over the threshold, husband?”

Percy watches with raised eyebrows as Antony scoops Andrew up in his arms, valise and all, and carries him up the bank to the waiting carriage. “Things went well, I take it?” he says with exaggerated disinterest.

Andrew laughs as Antony sets him down. “Percy! I feel like it’s been months since I saw you last. I trust the whole operation didn’t fall apart while I was gone?”

Percy steps forward as if to embrace him, then pauses as he realizes that even with the few spectators this could be indecorous, and eventually settles for kissing Andrew’s hand playfully. “Oh, I’ve carried on somehow. You’ve...met Antony, I see.”

“After a manner of speaking,” Andrew says, nudging Antony in the side.

Antony laughs and tries to tickle Andrew through the stays until Andrew hits him with the fan. “You ought to cross the Channel and get yourself a wife, Percy,” he says as he offers Andrew his arm. “It’s working out famously for us so far.”

Percy laughs and clasps his shoulder. “So I see. Who knows, dear boy, I might at that…”


End file.
